The Alpine Uproar

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The Alpine Uproar Page 22

by Mary Daheim


  “Maybe the bee that got you was the last of the season,” I said. “Is there anything else I need to do now, like see an estimate?”

  She rubbed her arm again. “Did Bert give you a ballpark figure?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’ll stick to it,” Norene promised. “That’s how he keeps his customers.” She peered out from under her curly bangs and pointed to the entrance behind me. “Here’s Bert. Now I can go home and do laundry. I only come in to check the books once a week. Nice seeing you.” She waited for her husband to enter the office, told him she was off, and left via the back way.

  “Hiya,” Bert greeted me. “You don’t look too miserable.” He chuckled. “So Holly’s playing the fender bender for all it’s worth.”

  “It’s not worth anything to her,” I retorted. “She may go to jail.”

  Bert rubbed his slightly bulbous nose. “Nah. She’ll lose her license and have to wear one of those monitor things for a while, but they won’t put her in a cell. Hell’s bells, she’s a mommy. They get special treatment. Especially her type of mommy.” He winked. “Holly knows how to please little boys and big boys, too.”

  I didn’t pretend to be amused, but I remained civil. It’s never a good idea to displease someone who’s going to make out an invoice that’s payable upon receipt. “How soon will my car be ready?”

  Bert gazed up at the ceiling. “Oh—I can do the actual repair this afternoon. Then it depends on when the tire gets here. With any luck, maybe around noon tomorrow.”

  “Any chance you’ve got a loaner?”

  Bert shook his head. “Not really. Just about every car or truck here has a problem or is ready to be junked.”

  “If the tire isn’t here until tomorrow, why can’t I use my spare?”

  Bert made a face. “I wouldn’t advise it. It’s kind of flimsy. You couldn’t take it out on the highway. Even around town, we’ve got our share of bumps and lumps and potholes. You’d think Mayor Baugh would get that stuff fixed. Fuzzy might as well have stayed in Louisiana. After all these years in Alpine, he still has that Big Easy mentality.”

  “It’s funding,” I said. “The voters turned down the last street project.” An idea occurred to me. “Would any of your vehicles awaiting demolition have a tire that’d work on the Honda?”

  Bert shifted his burly body from one foot to the other. “Oh … I doubt it. You’re not desperate to go someplace, are you?”

  “I don’t like being dependent on other people,” I said. “I feel at a disadvantage in terms of my job. If I need to chase down breaking news, I can’t call a cab because we don’t have any around here.”

  “Emma.” Bert put out a hand. I took a step backward, assuming he was about to touch me with his greasy fingers. “Look,” he went on, dropping his hand to his side, “I’ll do my dangedest to get the car to you by lunchtime. But it’s up to the Honda folks to send the tire. Forget about your spare or a used one. It’d take a search party to find anything usable around here.”

  “I can look,” I said. “I saw a blue Toyota parked alongside the building. Who does it belong to?”

  “Norene,” Bert replied. “She just drove off in it.”

  “That’s the only one you’ve got on the premises? What about the wrecking yard?”

  “Forget it.” Bert’s smile seemed forced. “Hey, Emma—I mean, Ms. Lord—it’s going to be okay. Relax. I’ll call you as soon as they roll that tire in here tomorrow.”

  I felt as if Bert and I were having a war of wills. Maybe it was my fault. I was being unreasonable, no doubt as a result of the rotten weekend I’d just endured. I’d already jumped all over Bernie Shaw; now I was taking out my frustrations on Bert Anderson.

  “You’re right,” I said, managing some sort of smile. “I’d better get back to the office. For all I know, there is breaking news. Thanks,” I added, speaking over my shoulder as I walked past Bert and headed out the front door.

  Crossing the railroad tracks, I walked along Seventh to Front. By the time I reached the corner at Sixth, I wasn’t feeling so vigorous. My watch told me it was a quarter to eleven, time for more meds.

  Amanda, who was on the phone, barely acknowledged my return. Kip, however, looked glad to see me. “I wondered where you were,” he said. “Nobody seemed to know.”

  I gazed around the otherwise empty newsroom. “You mean Amanda didn’t know?”

  “She just said you’d been gone for an hour or so.”

  “Maybe I didn’t tell her,” I admitted. “Maybe she was on the phone. I don’t remember.” There was no need to tell Kip that Holly’s threat of a lawsuit had sent me rushing off to see the sheriff. “I just came back from Bert Anderson’s shop. I may get my car back tomorrow.”

  “Bert’s okay,” Kip said. “He’s a decent mechanic, but not in De Muth’s class. I don’t know why Bert needs those Dobermans. All he’s got behind that fence is a bunch of junk.”

  “Dobermans?” I frowned. “When did he get them?”

  “He hasn’t yet,” Kip said. “He’s getting them from a kennel in Minnesota. Chili heard about it from Cammy, Bert’s daughter. Is that an item for Vida’s ‘Scene’?”

  “Maybe when the guard dogs get here,” I said. “Give her a note or send her an email. Her computer expertise is improving.”

  “Which,” Kip said, gesturing toward the back shop, “is why I was looking for you. We haven’t put any updates on the online version except for some classified ads and a couple of promos Leo got in the mail. Is there something we can use before we actually go to press?”

  I considered the question. “Not really. Nothing newsworthy has happened since Clive was charged. Mitch would let me know if Clive’s attorney was going to ask for bail.” I paused. “Do you know if we got a funeral notice for De Muth?”

  Kip shook his head. “It’d come to Vida, but she hasn’t given me anything.”

  “Okay.” I started for my cubbyhole. “I’ll see if the sheriff knows anything about that.”

  Jack Mullins took my call. “We don’t have the stiff back yet,” he said. “SnoCo won’t have the tox screen completed until the end of this week. Hey, you want to claim the body?”

  “Huh?”

  “Nobody else has, and it turns out De Muth was one of our own.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A Catholic,” Jack replied. “Father Den told me yesterday after Mass that he knew De Muth. I told Father Den I’d never seen him in church. Have you?”

  “No. I couldn’t make it yesterday because of my back. If De Muth didn’t attend Mass, how did Father Den know him?”

  “He came to the rectory a couple of times,” Jack replied. “You know Den—he’s closemouthed, and not just when it comes to the confessional. He sort of blew me off by saying that De Muth had a troubled conscience. Hell, who doesn’t?”

  “My brother, Ben, would call that PriestSpeakeasy,” I said. “It’s designed to do what Father Den did—blow you off.” It wouldn’t do any good for Jack or me to probe further, so I took a conversational detour. “No De Muth relatives, ex-wives, kids, or close friends, I gather. What about those young guys that Alvin was mentoring as mechanics? Somebody told me he was rather close to a couple of them.”

  “As in pervert?”

  “No, as in avuncular.”

  “Wow. That sounds worse than pervert.” Jack clucked his tongue. “You writer types, with all your two-dollar words.”

  Jack was no dummy. He went on, “Okay, so I admit I never heard any weirdo stuff about De Muth. That kind of weirdo, anyway. In fact, it was always the opposite—he was a real loner.”

  “Do you know who he mentored?”

  “Not offhand, but Mike … oh, crap! I keep forgetting the poor kid’s dead. Maybe his brother, Ken, would know. I’ll ask around,” Jack said.

  “Talk to Harvey Adcock,” I suggested. “He’s seen De Muth come into the hardware store with a young man a few times.”

  “Sam Heppner already asked Harvey,
” Jack replied. “Harvey admitted he only assumed that De Muth and the kid were related. He didn’t recognize the kid, but he thought there was a resemblance between the two of them. You know Sam—he’s like Dodge, wanting facts, not guesswork. Sam insisted the only resemblance Harvey could offer was that De Muth and the younger guy were both dark-haired, about the same height, and had two arms and two legs.”

  “The son angle is probably a dead end,” I said, “but the kid could be local. Let me know if you hear anything important.”

  “Are you thinking De Muth had a yen for younger guys?”

  The question surprised me. “No. But there’s a possibility.”

  “He wouldn’t be a first,” Jack said without his usual flippancy. “I doubt Norm Carlson would run one of those ‘Have You Seen Him?’ pictures on Blue Sky Dairy’s milk cartons.”

  “Why not?” I said.

  “Norm guards his wholesome image like Elsie the Borden Cow.”

  I didn’t argue, but after we rang off, I considered running a description or even a sketch in the Advocate. “The Kid,” as I was calling him, could be a crucial factor in the investigation.

  Abruptly, I stopped thinking along those lines. There was no investigation. Alvin De Muth’s death was an open-and-shut case. Clive Berentsen had confessed, a bunch of witnesses had been on the scene, and charges had been filed. End of story.

  So why did I feel that we’d only read the preface?

  SIXTEEN

  JUST BEFORE NOON, VIDA RETURNED TO THE OFFICE. “WHAT,” she demanded, “is this scribbling about Doublemint Punchers?”

  I was momentarily stumped. “Oh—Doberman pinschers,” I said, pouring my cold coffee back into the urn. Waste not, want not. Emma, the Frugal Editor. “Kip’s handwriting isn’t very legible. He says Bert Anderson’s getting a pair to guard his junkyard.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Vida tossed the note aside. “Who’d steal anything out of that place? Bert’s canny. He salvages any usable parts.”

  “Maybe the yard is where he stores valuable bits and pieces he can use or sell.”

  “Perhaps,” Vida allowed, “but those dogs can be quite vicious. And so noisy! My daughter Beth had a neighbor who owned a Doberman. She was scared to death to let the children play in the yard because she was sure the dog could leap the fence. Fortunately, the neighbors moved a few months later.”

  “A dog’s behavior depends on how it was trained,” I said, recalling an incident that had figured in a homicide several years ago.

  Vida sniffed disdainfully. “If these Dobermans are supposed to guard Bert’s junk, he’ll train them to attack.”

  “They may be trained already,” I said. “He’s getting them from Minnesota.”

  “Minnesota,” Vida murmured, sitting down. “I can’t imagine living where the land is so flat. I don’t care very much for eastern Washington, but at least it’s got some parts that aren’t like a pancake.”

  I didn’t comment further. To my knowledge, Vida had never been out of the Pacific Northwest. She’d lived her entire life in Alpine and rarely strayed far from the I-5 corridor between the Canadian border and Oregon. A few years ago, we’d spent some time in Cannon Beach on the Oregon coast. Although Vida thought the town’s seaside architecture had a certain charm, she’d gone on to say that life on the beach must get tiresome. “The tide comes in and the tide goes out,” she’d told me. “So predictable, with exact times just like a bus schedule. I much prefer living in a place that’s nestled in the mountains.” Like Alpine, of course. Valhalla would have suffered by comparison with Vida’s hometown. “Are you eating in?”

  I confessed that I hadn’t thought about it. “Are you?”

  Vida made a face. “I planned to, but the celery and carrot sticks and the hard-boiled egg I brought to the office suddenly don’t appeal to me. I certainly don’t want to go off my diet, yet I feel the need for something a bit more hearty.”

  Vida’s so-called diets were a joke among the rest of us. She had a large frame and she was tall. Ten, even twenty pounds either way were scarcely noticeable. “The Venison Inn?” I said.

  She hesitated. “Yes, I believe they have some low-calorie items on their menu.” She checked her watch. “It’s ten to twelve. Shall we go?”

  “Sure.” I stood up as Vida went back to her desk to retrieve her purse and coat. Before I could get farther than the middle of the newsroom, Amanda entered.

  “Here,” she said, handing me a WHILE YOU WERE UNAVAILABLE note. She turned around and left.

  Marisa Foxx had returned my phone call at ten-forty. Annoyed, I considered chewing out Amanda, but I conquered the urge, mouthed the word Wait to Vida, and went into the front office.

  “I wish,” I said, trying to remain pleasant, “you’d given me this when I got back here an hour or so ago. Ms. Foxx is probably at lunch.”

  Amanda was gathering up her own belongings. “Yes,” she replied. “She probably is. I’m meeting her at the ski lodge coffee shop. I may be a few minutes late getting back.” With another frosty smile, she slung her hobo bag over her shoulder and went out the door.

  Vida had edged her way closer to the front office. “Well now! What was that all about?”

  “I’ve no idea,” I admitted. “I don’t think Marisa and Amanda are friends. Marisa has never mentioned her.” I paused. “On the other hand, Marisa is rather cagey about personal matters. Maybe that’s why she and I get along. Neither of us is willing to open up to other people.”

  Vida, who is also reticent about her private life, yet ferrets out every detail and nuance of anyone who crosses her path, nodded. “That’s possible. I’ll have to ask my niece Judi about it.”

  Going out the door, we almost collided with Mitch Laskey. He made a bow. “Off to lunch? I may be late getting back. Brenda has to have that burn checked out at the clinic. It’s worse than we thought.”

  “Dear me,” Vida murmured, glancing at me. “I suppose she can’t drive, either.”

  Mitch smiled at his colleague. “We seem to be the designated drivers. See you soon.”

  Vida and I continued down the street to the Venison Inn. “I’m beginning to wonder about Brenda,” she said. “She seems to have a great many problems.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “Well … yes, of course.” Vida let me go inside first. It wasn’t a sign of deference to The Boss, but because she inevitably stopped along the way to the booth, interrogating each person she knew and thus holding up her companion and occasionally a few other customers as well.

  For once, the restaurant was less than half full. It wasn’t quite noon and the rush would be on in the next five to ten minutes. Vida found slim pickings for her gossip basket. By the time she joined me in a booth—with a window view, of course—the only snippet she’d gleaned was that Francine and Warren Wells were thinking about spending Christmas in Bavaria.

  “They call it their third honeymoon,” Vida said in disgust as she slid into the opposite side of the booth. “Married, divorced, married again.” She shook her head. “That’s all very well and good, but how many honeymoons do people really need? And Bavaria! Why not save money and just drive over to Leavenworth?”

  Vida referred to the town on the other side of Stevens Pass that had become a destination not only for winter sports but for tourists year-round. Within Leavenworth’s city limits, most of the buildings along Highway 2 were built in the Bavarian style. Shops and restaurants featured German goods and food. During the Christmas season, special passenger trains were put on for day trips so that visitors could enjoy the sights, sounds, and smells of an ersatz Bavaria. On one of Tom’s visits to Alpine, we had driven there to spend the night. It was a magical time. The memory was still as vivid as it was bittersweet.

  “Of course,” Vida continued after briefly studying the menu, “Francine must make good money with her women’s apparel store. I only go there when she has a clearance sale. Since they got back together, Warren may nominally manage the s
hop, but I doubt he does much in the way of work.” She paused. “I’ll have the steak sandwich special.”

  I looked at the menu’s description: rib-eye steak on a French roll with fries, onion rings, and a salad. “That’s definitely hearty,” I said.

  To my surprise, Liz, the Burger Barn’s surly waitress, suddenly appeared bearing two glasses of ice water. “You decided yet?” she asked. Before either Vida or I could respond, Liz scowled at my House & Home editor. “What’s with that piece in the paper about me moving here from Idaho?”

  Vida stared unblinkingly at Liz. “I interviewed you, or don’t you remember? Frankly, I didn’t learn anything to justify a feature story, so I put a brief mention in my ‘Scene’ column. Had I known you were working two jobs, that would’ve provided more human interest.”

  “I’m not working two jobs,” Liz snapped. “I quit the Burger Barn last Friday. Now I’m here. Are you going to put that in the paper, too, or are you finished prying into my private life?”

  Vida wore her Cheshire Cat expression. “Your job is not part of your private life. And, I might add, I certainly will mention your change of employment. If I don’t, readers will think we made a mistake. That simply won’t do.”

  Liz’s face grew tighter with Vida’s every word. “Mistake? You’ve already made enough,” she declared. “If everybody in this burg knows everybody else, then they’ve already figured out where I work.”

  “Well …” Vida appeared to ponder Liz’s words. “Given your career path in Alpine, will you be at the diner or the ski lodge next week?”

  Liz, who looked as if she wanted to throttle Vida, took a deep breath. “Just give me your order. I’ve got other customers waiting.”

  Vida pretended to study the menu. “The special, medium well done, with Roquefort dressing on the salad, and please don’t skimp. It’s very annoying when the dressing runs out before the greens do.” With an emphatic gesture, she slapped the menu closed.

  Liz turned to me. “What about you?”

  “The same,” I said, avoiding the waitress’s sour expression, “but I want my steak rare.”

 

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